


I Have Served

by Riverlander974



Category: John Wick (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20692556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverlander974/pseuds/Riverlander974
Summary: Bucky was tired. He just wanted to get out of from Under the Table, but that all goes wrong. Now he was running for his life with his best friend, Rumlow snapping at their heels, and unwillingly swept up in an underworld revolution he had no freaking idea about.It also led him straight to a man with the prettiest brown eyes he'd ever seen.Maybe Bucky would find another reason to stay in service.*Tags to be added as the story updates*Fic for the WinterIron Reverse Bang 2019!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the love to my artist [Feignedsobriquet](https://feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com) for inspiring this whole thing with the beautiful artwork! Look out for it in a future chapter. No spoilers!

#  ** **

#  **Washington, D.C.**

“Steve,” Bucky hissed. “What the _ fuck _ did you just do?”

Steve seemed equally surprised as he stared down the barrel of his smoking gun at the perfect bullet hole that was now in the middle of Alexander Pierce’s forehead. His body was still upright in his chair, only his head had tipped back, pale eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling above while the blood dripped into the man’s ashy hair.

The squeak of an expensive shoe from the side had Bucky turning around quickly, raising his own gun. He hesitated for only a split-second before pulling the trigger, and Sitwell fell in a sprawl just behind Pierce, dead before he could even think to shout.

They slowly lowered their guns, and for a long moment they just stared silently at the two dead men.

“I had to do it,” Steve said at last, eyes wild but not a hint of regret in his voice, because of course there wasn’t. “He wasn’t going to let you go, Buck. And Sitwell was just gonna _ let _ him keep you.”

“Of course, he was!” Bucky shrieked, “Sitwell belonged to him, too!”

“Oh.”

“And I killed Sitwell.” Bucky blinked rapidly as the thought penetrated, doubling over when the true enormity of their actions hit him and he went dizzy. “_Fuck_, what have we done?”

A big hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Steve leaned down to meet his eyes, “We did what we had to do.”

“Steve, we just killed one of the High Table _ and _ an Adjudicator.”

“He wasn’t going to uphold his side of the Marker!” Steve yelled insistently.

“They ain’t gonna care about that!” Bucky yelled back.

Steve shook his head, a calm stubbornness having settled across his shoulders now. That stupidly familiar expression already made Bucky want to punch his dumb face in before he even heard whatever dumb words Steve was about to say. “The rules about Markers are practically law in our circle. Pierce was in the wrong.”

But now Bucky was the one shaking his head, “They still ain’t gonna care, Steve. They’re just gonna see this as an attack on all of ‘em. We’re dead men walking.”

At least Steve stopped looking entirely so confident as the logic behind Bucky’s words rang true. 

Laughing a touch hysterically, Bucky looked around the room they were in at the back of the nightclub. There was only one way in or out of there, and in the hall leading back to the club Pierce’s top men would all be lined up waiting on orders from their boss. 

The building used to be an actual bank, and had thus been imaginatively renamed The Bank. It was now floors of different lounges and bars, and the basement they were in had once been a real vault, which had since been converted into one of the club’s private VIP suites for hire. Plush leather sofas and a well-stocked wet bar had been added, but the rows of safety deposit boxes on the walls and the original thick vault door had been left behind as decoration.

The location for their meeting had been carefully chosen to keep them - Bucky - contained. Pierce was smart, after all. He just hadn’t taken Steve’s impulsivity into account.

Bucky glared at the vault door. It might be thick enough to hold up in a gunfight, _ maybe _, but they’d only wind up trapping themselves inside the room to die a slower death. With Pierce’s corpse, to boot. Their only options seemed to be to risk dying by starvation or assassination. 

“What’re we gonna do now?” Bucky groaned. 

Was he surprised that Pierce reneged on his side of the Marker? No. Pierce was a slimy bastard. But Bucky had been hopeful. The Marker had seemed like his ticket out of the life. Now he was in deeper shit than he’d ever been in. 

“First, we’ve gotta get out of the club,” Steve said, checking the chamber of his gun before tucking it back in the holster under his arm. “Closest exit is on the main floor.”

Typical punk - land in shit and he’d immediately start up with a plan. Not always a _ good _ plan, nor a sane one, but a plan nonetheless. “Pierce has half a dozen men on the other side of the door, and it’s a bottleneck into the main floor. How are you supposing we get past them alive?”

“Simple,” Steve lifted his chin, “We just act like we’ve done nothing wrong. Because we haven’t.”

“Your whole plan is for us to _ bluff_?”

“Yes,” Steve said, like that was reasonable, already reaching for the handle of the vault door. “Now, are we doing this or not?”

Bucky huffed but holstered his gun too, heading for the sofa. 

He scooped up the Marker medallion from the floor, where it had fallen out of Pierce’s limp hand. Slipping it into his breast pocket, Bucky took a moment to straighten his jacket and hope he didn’t look as panicked as he currently felt. He also hoped he didn’t have any blood or brain matter visible on him, but there was a reason he preferred wearing black. It hid all manner of stain, and usually managed to cover any shine from his metal arm too. 

Then he joined Steve at the door, shooting him a deeply unimpressed look but having nothing else to say. Steve might have taken out a member of High Table, but having killed one of their Adjudicators, Bucky was equally screwed. They’d either get through this alive or they wouldn’t, but what had been done couldn’t be _ un _done, so complaining about the situation would only cause a racket. 

Steve cocked his head, “Ready?”

Bucky scowled, “No.”

Steve grinned, “Great.”

Nothing unusual.

Steve spun the hand wheel and the vault door swung open. They slipped out, before quickly shutting the door closed behind them. 

That would maybe give them ten extra seconds before Pierce’s guards realised what had happened. Less if Rumlow headed into the private room first, which he was bound to do. He was already standing right outside the door looking expectantly at their faces, that smarmy smirk on his face that had Bucky’s hackles up immediately.

Putting an unhappy expression on his face wasn’t exactly hard at that moment, and Bucky knew that Rumlow had probably guessed that Pierce had planned to go back on his Marker and would expect Bucky’s unhappy reaction. Rumlow always liked watching people suffer, even for someone in their line of work. _ Sadist_. At least sneering back wouldn’t be out of character for either of them.

“You gentlemen finished already?” Rumlow drawled, thumbs hooked in his utility belt, looking like the cat that got the cream as he watched Steve puff up. No love lost there either.

“Yes,” Steve hissed between gritted teeth, his jaw so tight he’d probably cracked a tooth. “We are.”

Rumlow grinned, eyes turning to Bucky, “So, you’re out, then?”

Holding back a growl, Bucky shook his head, “…Got another mission.”

“Ah.” There was a moment of surprise, but no suspicion yet. Rumlow really must have known Pierce wasn’t going to let Bucky go. Bucky could almost _ see _ the glee reflected in Rumlow’s eyes, even as he painted a blatantly fake expression of sympathy on his face, “Guess we’ll have to wait a little longer for that retirement party, huh?”

Bucky clenched his hands, listening to the servos whir in his mechanical arm.

“Well, you boys have a nice night,” Rumlow said with a grin, taking a step back. “And good luck on your next mission, Cолдат.”

The bastard always liked bringing that name up around Bucky. As if it wasn’t a label he had for years been working hard to leave behind.

But he held his tongue and just followed Steve right past Rumlow, down the small corridor and up the stairs, trying not to bristle at the feeling of having Pierce’s men at their vulnerable backs. Bucky kept walking, head ducked so his long hair veiled his eyes, as he counted down the seconds until their flimsy ruse was up. 

He’d barely reached _ seven _ before Bucky heard a roar of rage. Rumlow started shouting orders behind them, and then there was the too familiar staccato of gunshots whizzing through the air. 

Ducking his head and hunching his shoulders, whatever good that would do against bullets, he didn’t bother shooting back and just sprinted after Steve up into the main club. Beyond the private rooms the sound-proofing gave way to the deafening bass of whatever music was playing and strobing neon lights, and they slipped into the dancing throng of people. With this many innocents around them usually it would put a halt on any pursuits, but this was Hydra, and Bucky doubted they held themselves to those unspoken rules as much as others.

He risked a glance over one shoulder and spotted Rumlow arriving at the edge of the crowd, his men fanning out behind him to circle the room. They were all scanning the masses for them, and he and Steve didn’t exactly fit in with the others at the club right now, nearly a head taller than most and cutting determinedly through the writhing dancers. But there wasn’t time to waste in stealth-dancing to an exit, Hydra would have closed off access to the doors by then. Not to mention that Steve was shit at dancing anyway, and would likely draw more attention as a result.

A sudden hand on his wrist almost had Bucky clocking Steve in the face, and only both their fast reflexes saved the blond lug from a black eye. Bucky cursed, shoving Steve onward toward the main door. 

But the punk started tugging him to the right instead. Toward the bar.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, “The exit is _ that _ way!”

“I had an idea,” Steve was half-dragging him by now. “We’ve got to get into the back.”

“The kitchens?” That could work. The kitchens had a set of loading bay doors out to the alley behind the club. Less guarded and more discreet for a getaway.

“No. The office,” Steve said, pushing past a gaggle of drunk office workers. “The CCTV, Buck. We can get proof of what really happened at the meeting with Pierce!”

“Proof that it was us that killed them? Wonderful.”

“_And _ proof that he was going to break his side of the Marker,” Steve said insistently. 

They’d already reached the bar now, so Bucky just let Steve use his broad shoulders to muscle his way past the people calling for the bartenders. For such a big guy, he could sometimes go nearly unseen through a crowd when he wanted. Another look behind them showed that Rumlow and his men were still focused on scanning the main dance floor. 

“We don’t have _ time _ for that, Steve,” Bucky said, but nonetheless followed him as they slipped behind the bar. 

Steve swung open the door to the kitchens and dodged past staff too harried by the crowds to pay them a second look, heading straight for the office door and past the unguarded back door to their freedom. 

The manager was apparently away from his desk, so they ducked inside, but Bucky could practically _ feel _ his blood pressure rising the longer they hung around. It wouldn’t take Rumlow long to think of the other exits for the club. 

Blatantly ignoring the threat hanging over them, Steve went for the computer monitors, pointer fingers pecking at the keyboard like the old man he actually was inside while Bucky turned to watch the door. 

There was a suspicious and surprising lack of gunfire following them so far. Perhaps Hydra adhered more to unspoken rules about civilians than Bucky had thought.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” The stilted _ tak-tak-tak _ of the keyboard behind Bucky wasn’t helping him to stay calm.

“Shut up,” Steve shot back, “I’m concentrating.”

“Concentrate faster,” Bucky whispered, ears trained on the kitchen. 

There was a new set of footsteps he was tracking. It was too slow and deliberate to belong to the bar staff, who were busy darting back and forth with dirty glasses and ice. Worse, the footsteps were getting closer to the office door. 

“Steve, hurry it up.”

“A few more seconds.” Another set of slow footsteps had joined the first.

“_Steve_.”

“_Shut up_.”

Bucky didn’t bother pulling out his gun. The office was too small for a gunfight, and he wasn’t planning on letting them end up trapped in here anyway. Their best bet would be to push the fight out into the kitchen and make a break for the loading bay doors.

A shadow outside the office door had just paused when Steve let out a small smug, “Got it!” and Bucky didn’t waste another moment. 

He rammed the door open, smashing into whoever was behind it with a satisfying smack. There was a loud shout of pain and surprise as Bucky quickly tackled the closest man. Steve leapt over them, already aiming for the second Hydra thug with all two hundred plus pounds of deadly force.

The bar staff fled. It would only take seconds for Rumlow to notice and send more men into the kitchen, and Bucky knew they had to get out now if they wanted to get away at all. 

Using his thighs to pin the other man’s arms to the floor, Bucky wrapped his hands around the man's throat and with a sharp twist and _ snap _ he broke the man’s neck. Steve’s own fight was over just as fast, blood splattered on the second Hydra thug’s face, and then they were scrambling for the loading bay doors.

They sprinted into the alley just as gunshots erupted behind them. 

“Remind me! What was the plan for once we got outta the club?” Bucky snapped, skidding around a corner after Steve, a line burning at his hip as a bullet just grazed him.

“Quit whining!” Steve yelled back, turning to quickly shoot back. He knew the DC area better than Bucky, worked in the city more often, so he took the lead through the streets.

“_Whining?_” Bucky growled, spinning around to return fire to the Hydra goons still on their tail. “I am not whining!”

Steve jerked beside him suddenly, though he didn’t miss a step as he kept running. “‘M fine,” Steve insisted when he sensed Bucky’s judging eyes. “Keep moving.”

Bucky forced away the worry for his friend for the moment as they ran. They couldn’t do this all night though. Another brief glance at Steve and Bucky saw the dark spot growing on his shirt. Steve needed medical attention or he was just gonna keep losing blood and Hydra were going to catch them sooner rather than later. 

Steve suddenly grabbed Bucky by the shoulder and pushed him into another random alley, “Gimme a coin.”

“What?” Bucky asked, but he was already digging into one of his hidden pockets for a gold coin. 

He passed it to Steve, and the lug immediately dropped it into the little paper cup in front of a homeless guy in the alley. He was just lying there next to a dirty dog and an overstuffed shopping cart. “Take us to him,” Steve said to the man, leaning against Bucky a little heavier. “Tell him it’s Cap.”

The hobo didn’t move for a second, and Bucky thought he was asleep, but then he gave a jerk of his head and pointed a thumb at the dumpster next to him, “Hop in.”

Bucky didn’t have time to question any of this, just trusted Steve to know what he was doing and helped his friend into the dumpster before jumping in after him. It stank but was thankfully empty, and he quietly huddled up next to Steve. He was still breathing, but there was a pained wheeze to it now.

The hobo silently closed the lid over their heads, just as Bucky heard the dog bark outside and new footsteps sounded in the alley. 

Bucky held his breath, gun ready in one hand while he wrapped his other arm around Steve. He was ready for if Hydra discovered them. 

“Hey,” he heard the homeless guy say, “Hey, man, you got a quarter?”

“I’ll give you ten dollars if you can tell us about anyone who ran through here before us,” another voice barked. Bucky recognised who it was _Rollins_, which probably meant Rumlow was with the group.

“Yeah, man,” the homeless guy said, and Bucky tensed up, fear and rage burning in him at the betrayal. “Yeah, there was a- a girl? Pretty girl. Was it a girl you lookin’ for?”

“No,” Rollins growled.

“I mean a guy! There was a guy too!” the homeless guy quickly said. “Yeah, it was a guy. Wearing a- a hat?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” another voice, Rumlow this time, said.

“They probably doubled back,” someone else spoke up. “Their bikes are still be back at the club.”

“Hey, what about my money?” the hobo shouted, as footsteps hurried past the dumpster and out of the alley. “Not for me, for Lucky. You really gonna let a dog starve?”

Bucky heard a thunderous clatter in the alley, as someone lingered long enough to kick over the hobo’s shopping cart, before their footsteps pounded away too. Bucky stayed tensed up for a long minute after still, and jumped at a sudden knocking on the dumpster. 

“Better stay put,” said the homeless guy from outside the dumpster. “In case they come back. You alright in there ‘til it’s safer to move you?”

Steve was breathing slowly and slumped against him, but Bucky felt him nod, and he hoped to hell the punk wasn’t lying about his injury. Again. “We can wait.”

“Awesome!” the homeless guy said cheerfully, “I’m gonna pick up all my shit then. That fucker’s lucky I didn’t shoot him, but you didn’t pay for that.”

Bucky still didn’t know who the hell this guy was, but Steve seemed comfortable enough about him, so they waited in the dark dumpster listening to the homeless man mutter to himself and his dog as he packed up his cart again. 

“Steve,” Bucky nudged him on the shoulder, “Who’s this guy supposed to be taking us to?”

The only answer he got was a grunt. Steve was flopped half-dozing against his shoulder, hand pressed to his side.

“Punk.”

* * *

They ended up at a soup kitchen, of all places, about an hour later. 

It was the early hours of the day, and Bucky was still just as jumpy and confused as he had been when he’d first jumped into the dumpster with Steve, but the homeless guy safely guided them through the shadows and alleyways to the kitchen. He even provided a surprisingly clean towel for Steve to hold to his bleeding side on the way. Bucky was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for now since he hadn’t tried to kill them yet, which automatically put him ahead of everyone else they’d met tonight. 

They were ushered through to the back of the shelter, past dozens of people still sleeping in bunk beds and the actual soup kitchen itself, and found themselves in a small but serviceable and clean clinic of sorts. 

The homeless guy helped Bucky shift Steve’s heavy frame onto an examination table. And then he moved to stand by the door, shooing his dog out of the room, “Go get the doc, Lucky.”

The dog, Lucky, woofed and padded away, tail wagging. Bucky stared at the hobo, but he seemed utterly confident that his dog would do as told, and honestly it wasn’t even the weirdest thing Bucky had seen someone in their world train an animal to do. And he wasn’t going to argue about having a doctor take a look at Steve and him. He could deal with most gunshot wounds himself, but his work wasn’t anything close to _ neat _. 

Soon enough, the door opened, and a young black man walked in. No Lucky though, so Bucky didn’t think this was the doctor. He took in the sorry state of the Steve and Bucky, the blood splattered all over them both, and whistled through his gap-tooth, “Hey, Cap.”

Steve gave a sheepish shrug, “Sam.”

“Man, you are trouble.”

“Yeah, we’re in a bit of trouble—”

“Oh, no, I meant what I said. You two _ are _ trouble.” 

Bucky frowned, “What do you mean?”

Sam pulled out a slim smartphone from his pocket, a complete contrast to the ragged clothing and tattered work boots he was dressed in, much like the homeless man who’d brought them here. He waved the device at them, “‘Bout half an hour ago we got a broadcast that some guys had successfully taken out one of the High Table. Guys who fit your descriptions really well, names and everything,” Sam shrugged, “Might’ve been something about an Adjudicator, too?”

Steve swore, “That’s not the whole story!” but Bucky immediately tensed up, eyeing Sam and the homeless man with wary eyes. 

“They put out a contract on us.”

“Yup,” Sam nodded to Bucky. “It’s at $5 million each right now.”

Bucky shifted to stand between Steve and the other two, “So should we be expecting that doctor or a bullet from you?”

His hand drifted toward the gun strapped to his back, but Sam and the homeless man made no move to attack them. Sam was smiling even as he was shaking his head, “You think we’re gonna kill you?”

“$10 million ain’t a small prize.” 

“True,” the homeless man said brightly.

“No one here is killing you boys for _ Them_,” Sam said, voice firm, “Not before we hear your side of the story, anyway.”

Steve nodded, “I can explain—”

“First, let’s have Banner take a look at you and feed you something,” Sam slid his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t want you passing out before you finish talking. I can already tell this’ll be one hell of an interesting one.”

* * *

Banner turned out to be the doctor, _“Bruce is fine,” _ who Lucky did actually end up retrieving.

He arrived all rumpled, with crooked glasses and tangled grey-black curls, obviously not expecting any patients so early at the shelter, but his eyes were sharp and his hands were steady. He didn’t ask any questions, but Bucky saw how he shared a few looks with Sam and the homeless man, _ “I’m Clint, by the way!” _ and he bet Bruce knew exactly who he was treating.

When Steve was stitched up and Bucky was patched up, Sam and Clint herded them to the just-opened kitchen for breakfast, and Bruce followed along. They were only serving oatmeal and hot drinks, but it was warm and filling. Bucky couldn’t ask for more than that, but he also couldn’t help noticing all the eyes on them, though no one made a move for them once they spotted Sam with them.

They finished their food quickly before the main breakfast rush came in, and headed to the back again, down some stairs and through into a sprawling basement storeroom. Part of it was like a locker room, with people already there swapping out old clothes, slipping various knives and guns in the spaces hidden all over them before heading out again. 

Bucky followed Steve as they were led to a corner at the far end. It was sectioned off and had a few chairs gathered together in front of an empty desk. Once Sam took his seat behind the desk and they’d all settled in, with Clint kicking back in his chair behind them and Bruce cradling his coffee cup still from breakfast, all eyes turned to the two of them.

“Who exactly are you guys?” Bucky eventually asked.

“Hmm, just some people who fell through the cracks in society and had nowhere else to go,” Sam said. “So we ended up here. Birds of a feather and all.”

Bruce nodded, “Veterans, addicts, runaways, people who just had bad luck, others who just don’t want to be found. We look out for each other as best we can.”

“And how does any of that get you on High Table’s radar?”

“It doesn’t. High Table doesn’t give a shit about the homeless,” Clint said bluntly. “But among us are those with certain skills that don’t do well having little to do. Old Man Dugan gave us things to do, and we turned out pretty fucking good at doing ‘em. Turns out that when no one wants to look at you or listen to you, you can end up hearing and seeing a lot yourself.”

And suddenly, Bucky understood.

Information. 

An invaluable commodity to someone in a service like Bucky was in.

A data-collecting network that probably reached across the whole city at the very least, nearly invisible to most people simply by being overlooked. He could easily see how something like that could very quickly grab the attention of High Table, especially a network like this in the Nation’s capital.

“Dugan figured out an agreement with High Table years ago about how we’d work with them, but the Table’s been pushing to bring us fully under their control since I took over,” Sam huffed, “Pushing us hard.”

“They think they can just buy us guys out from under the new management,” Clint growled and blew a raspberry. “Fuckers.”

“So, you won’t find friends of High Table here,” Sam said, dark eyes flicking between Steve and Bucky. “But I’m not calling _ us _ friends just yet either. Talk.”

Steve didn’t waste a moment, telling them everything. 

How two boys had become best friends because they were the same. Both boys with struggling families, both boys first generation immigrants, both desperate boys turned onto less legal avenues just to make ends meet, the beginning of their service under the Table.

How it turned out they were really good at what they did, doing all sorts of jobs, from lowly gofers to wetwork, and steadily building reputations for themselves.

How as the years passed they’d found the work for High Table more tiresome, more chafing, more trouble than they wanted, with nightmares haunting them and paranoia itching at their heels. More and more they’d talked about getting out, now that they had enough to live on, now that their families were well provided for, before they lost their lives or their families to the work. The only question was on how they would leave. Retirement for people like them usually meant preparing a grave. But there was _ one _ way they’d heard of to get out.

And how it had all led Bucky to Alexander Pierce, and the mess of that Marker he’d taken.

Steve pulled out a small flashdrive from his pocket, “We have the proof right here. Video and audio. You can see it for yourselves if you don’t believe us.”

Clint plucked the flashdrive from him as Sam set a laptop on the desk. They plugged it in and started the video, the sound tinny from where Bucky was sitting. Their expressions didn’t change as they watched, all the way up until the _ pop _of a gunshot.

Closing the laptop, Sam handed the flashdrive back and relaxed in his chair. “Unfortunately, it’s not the first time I've heard a story like yours,” Sam admitted.

Bucky was curious about what he meant. Then he remembered the last person around the desk with them. Bruce had sat silently in his chair throughout the whole talk, not even getting up to watch the video. “You too?”

A grimace pulled at Bruce’s face, “You aren’t the only ones who heard of using a Marker like that, nor the only one betrayed like that. My temper got the better of me, and I… anyway, it happened years ago. Let’s just say that I’ve been hiding here ever since.”

Steve frowned, “Who?”

“A man called Ross,” Bruce grumbled. 

“_Thunderbolt _ Ross?!” Steve gawked.

“The very same.”

“Isn’t he based here?”

A small smirk ticked at the corner of Bruce’s mouth, “Mhmm, makes it the last place he’d ever look. He’s too confident I’ll have to run farther than that.”

Bucky was impressed. He hadn’t had the balls to stay a whole day in DC whenever Pierce set up meetings, and here was this man hiding from one of the most dangerous men in the world right under his very nose. For _ years_.

“This is different though!” Clint piped up. “Don’t you see? We have proof this time!”

“More than I ever had,” Bruce said.

“Proof won’t matter if there’s no one willing to see it,” Bucky pointed out, carefully eyeing the look on Steve’s face. It was another of his dumb I-have-the-start-of-a-crazy-idea looks. He had a lot of those, each very familiar to Bucky. _ Trouble, trouble, trouble. _

“So, what? You’re just gonna sit on this?” Sam said. He was starting to have a look very similar to Steve’s. It was worrying Bucky a little. He had an awful feeling Steve had found a kindred spirit for crazy schemes in Sam. “Run away and hide? Spend the rest of your life watching your back?”

Bucky huffed at him, crossing his arms grumpily. There was nothing wrong with doing what you had to just to survive. It was the whole reason he was in this service to begin with! He wasn’t looking to go stirring up _ more _ trouble.

Of course, Steve leaned forward eagerly, “You have any better ideas?”

Sam grinned, and Bucky felt a shudder go down his spine as he glared at that gap-toothed smile.

* * *

“This is stupid.”

“Just get in the car, Buck.”

Bucky glared at the vehicle. It was absolutely tiny. A rickety old clown car painted blue. Sam was grinning, already in the driver’s seat as he waited for Bucky to get in. Clint was in the front with him, while Steve was sitting in the back. 

Only Bruce wasn’t going with them, not wanting to risk Ross discovering him now after all this time. Bucky couldn’t blame him. That was not a man he wanted to be on the wrong side with. Clint had left him charge of Lucky’s care as they had been planning. Now they were only waiting on _ him_. Bucky knew he was going to get in though, they all did - Steve was going so he was going, no way was he letting that punk run off into trouble without him - he just wanted to make it absolutely clear how stupid this whole plan seemed to him. 

“Bucky!”

“Alright, keep your hair on!” he growled, sliding inside and shutting the door, cursing when it hit his elbow. Of course it did. There wasn’t space for a stray elbow. With two men in the back seat as big and tall as Steve and Bucky were, it was a tight squeeze into an already small space. 

Sam started the car up and Bucky stared stonily out of the window as Clint whooped, jostling the whole car, “Road trip! Yeah!”

Bruce lifted the rolling doors for them and waved them off as they pulled out of the garage onto the street. They’d slipped to the small garage through a maze of underground tunnels all the way from the soup kitchen, just in case anyone had been following them. Only Sam seemed to know the way by heart. 

It was mid-afternoon now, and the roads were busy though not quite packed with traffic. Bucky tensed up every time a car drew too close to them, ducking down in his seat, but there was no sign of Rumlow or his crew yet. Though they weren’t the only ones who would be after them. Not with the contracts they had on their heads. 

“Will this thing even _ make _ it all the way to New York?”

“We all will,” Sam said, confident. 

“Cheer up, man,” Clint reached back to nudge Bucky in the knee. “We’ve got a good plan, you know?”

“_No_.”

“Bucky…” Steve sighed, shooting sad blue eyes at him. “Trust us. This’ll work. It has to.”

“This is insane!” Bucky shrieked, finally bursting. “You’re planning taking on High Table!”

“Vive la révolution!” Clint chirped, pulling a laugh out of Sam, but Bucky wasn’t laughing. 

“This is a rebellion,” Bucky said, shooting a dark look at the three in the car. “And everyone knows how High Table deals with rebellions. Death. A lot of death. I would like not to die. Let’s just leave, Steve, while we’re still breathin’.”

Clint blew a raspberry, contorting his body to somehow manage to kick his feet up onto the dashboard, “High Table has it coming. They’ve had it coming for a long time now, and I know we’re not the only ones unhappy with how they’ve been running things lately. We’re just the only ones doing something about it. Don’t be such Han, Bucky.”

“A Han?”

“More like a Chewie to me, what with all the hair,” Sam giggled.

“Oh! I know this,” Steve piped up. “_Star Wars_, right? Bucky liked them.”

Bucky didn’t like them anymore. He felt like he was actually going to burst something soon from pure rage. _ None _ of them seemed to be taking this seriously. “I am not Han. This is not a movie. And we absolutely _ cannot take down High Table_.”

“We know this is dangerous, Barnes,” Sam said, pushing down his earlier laughter. “But there aren’t a lot of other options for you. Only someone at the Table can take down the contracts on the two of you now, but that’s going to be nearly impossible finding any of them willing to listen to us.”

“So your solution is to wipe out the Table?”

“Or get a man - or woman - of our own a seat,” Sam nodded. “They’ve been too removed from everything Under, they’re out of touch with the people that actually get things done in our world. Something like this was gonna happen sooner or later, why not now when it can be to our advantage?”

Nothing he said was wrong, which just made Bucky angrier. 

Sighing to himself, Bucky resigned himself to this latest fight he’d been drawn into with his best friend. Steve was all for it, his own personal honour and justice and all that shit pushing him to do the ‘right thing’, whatever that meant in their line of work. Their lives were going to be at risk, whether he was on the run or joining this madcap plan. Might as well go out with a bang.

Bucky hunched further down in his seat and rested a hand on the gun at his hip, closing his eyes even though he knew he wasn’t comfortable enough to sleep. “I am _ not _ Han.”

“Whatever, Chewie.”


	2. Chapter 2

#  **New York**

“How is this person we’re meeting supposed to help us anyway?”

“Oh, she knows everyone,” Clint said simply, chomping on some cereal he’d pulled out of nowhere. Bucky didn’t want to know what else he might have in his pockets. _And who carried loose cereal around with them anyway?_ That couldn’t be hygienic. “If anyone will know the easiest target at High Table, she will.”

Steve shuffled forward a little, which meant Bucky got his turn leaning back in his seat now. This car was going to permanently misalign _ something _ in his back by the end of this trip, he was certain of it. “And you’re sure she won’t go yapping on us?”

“We already told you, we’re not the only ones unhappy with those up high. S’just not been easy pulling together the right people with the right pull without ‘em, you know, dying before.”

Bucky huffed, _wonderful_, before turning his attention back to the window before he got motion sick. The last thing he needed was that on top of the tension headache he’d been sporting since yesterday. 

Darkness was setting in early as winter starting dragging its claws through the days. With the number of detours and diversions they’d taken they’d been on the road for nearly six hours now, with only one break to refuel the car and the passengers and another short stop for Sam to switch out the license plate. They'd switched drivers each time, but Bucky and Steve had been stuck in the back trying to keep low profiles.

A familiar skyline had glimmered now and then the closer they got, lit up and silhouetted against the night sky as it appeared around the buildings as they drove. It pulled an old ache in Bucky’s chest. He could see Steve feeling the same way. It happened every time they stopped by their old stomping ground. 

Neither had lived in the city for years, keeping their work away from their families.

Steve, of course, hadn’t strayed too far. He tried to keep his work mostly in the US, especially around the northeast. With only his mother left, it made it fairly simple if he needed or wanted to visit. When he came to New York he’d stay for a night at most, choosing a different hotel booked under a different name each time, inviting Sarah out to join him and deliberately never going near his old neighbourhood. 

It was harder for Bucky. He had a bigger family. Both parents were still alive, as well as two sisters and a brother, and their families on top of that. Seeing each of them would make his visits to the city too frequent. Anyone chasing him wouldn’t be hard pressed to make connections between them, even with his sisters under their married names. He couldn’t do that, wouldn’t risk them like that. So Bucky had chosen to do the opposite of Steve and put distance between them, and mostly took on work across the globe. 

It had gone smoother than he’d imagined. Raised in a home with a father that slipped into Bulgarian when exhausted between his three jobs, and a mother who resorted to Yiddish when she got too excited to remember her words, Russian actually ended up being what Bucky had been raised in, even before English, since it was what both parents could use. He’d always had a knack for languages, and easily picked up more on his travels. When Bucky wanted to see his family, all he had to do was book them a holiday abroad and meet up. Never in the same country he was working in, and never under the same name, but the Rogers and Barneses had learned not to ask too many questions of the boys.

It helped on not missing out too much on their families, but it didn’t really make them miss _ home _ any less.

The car emerged from the tunnel, and Bucky felt excited for the first time since this mess started. He was eager to properly set foot back in the city, and though they weren’t heading to Brooklyn, it was closer than he’d been in a decade.

Steve nudged him in the ribs, a nostalgic look on his face. “When this is over, you think…?”

_ When this is over_. That was a nice thought, that there would be and ‘after’ for them. Ridiculously optimistic, but a nice thought still, and Bucky didn’t have the heart or the energy right now to rob Steve of that tiny smile he was wearing. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see.”

Steve nodded, satisfied for now, and turned back to stare out of the window again.

“Hmm…” 

Clint’s head perked up sharply at the sound from Sam, and Bucky tensed up instinctively. He _ knew _ things had been going too smoothly. “S’up?”

“Wasn’t certain before, but yeah, I’m pretty sure we’ve got a tail,” Sam said quietly, eyes darting between the mirrors, though he maintained the car’s current speed.

Steve craned his head around Sam’s headrest, trying to get a look at the mirrors too. “Where?”

“Three of them,” Sam answered. “Grey sedan and two blue SUVs a few cars further back.”

“Got ‘em,” Clint muttered, eyeing the side mirror near him as he stuffed the rest of his cereal in his face. 

Bucky didn’t bother, they’d reveal themselves soon enough, and focused on rechecking that his weapons were all ready and where they were supposed to be. Steve whipped his head around to try and spot them though, “I thought you said there were no friends of the Table at the kitchen?”

“Yeah, but $10 million is $10 million,” Clint said, before Bucky heard him rifling in the glove box for something. “Word might’a gotten out anyway just for that pretty price on your heads.”

“And how’d they know we were heading here?” Bucky scoffed, huffing as Steve kept knocking into him as he tried to reach around for the gun at his side. The car was too damn small. 

Sam shrugged, “I mean, the nearest Continental is in New York. Not that big of a stretch to imagine you might head this way for sanctuary- _ shit!_”

The car gave a great jerk as someone collided with the rear end. A quick look and Bucky saw it was the sedan, the driver already gearing up to run into them again as the front passenger rolled down his window. Bucky cocked his gun, already calculating where to shoot to take out the car, when Clint cracked his door open for a moment and lobbed something behind them. Not five seconds later, there was a sharp _ boom! _ and the grey sedan flipped a full 360 in the air, landing with a crash and bursting into flames.

Bucky swung around, eyes bugging as he shrieked, “Was that a grenade?!”

“Maybe.”

“What the fuck?!”

“Just a small one!” Clint said, digging into the glove box again. 

Glass shattered behind them, and Bucky grunted when Steve suddenly shoved him down in his seat in time to avoid another shot. It hit the passenger seat headrest, but Clint was pretzeled up in his seat and it missed him too. 

Something else got thrown over Bucky’s head and out the broken rear window, and a few seconds later another explosion rocked behind them. 

It was closer this time, the back end of the car lifting and smacking into the tarmac, knocking Bucky’s head into Steve’s damned hard jaw, since his best friend was still stupidly covering him from bullets. “Stop throwing explosives!”

“You don't keep grenades in the _glove box_,” Steve mumbled, flinching when Bucky shot him a _ look_. “Right. Not the time.”

Bucky kicked out at the back of Sam’s seat, “How far to the hotel?”

“I can make it in five, but we got more company!” Sam shot back, swinging the car on a sharp left turn. Bucky heard the screech of skidding tyres behind them, and pushed Steve away so he could have a look behind them.

Illuminated under the streetlights were five more cars in pursuit formation on the suddenly cleared road. All dark and grey sedans with various men already hanging out of the windows aiming weapons at them. Bucky lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger, blowing out the front tyre of the closest car, sending it spinning and crashing into the one behind it. _ Two down_.

Sam sent the car swerving again just in time to avoid another blue SUV trying to plough into them. It managed a last second u-turn and joined onto the line of vehicles already pursuing them, bringing their pursuer numbers back up to four.

“Can you get ‘em all lined up?” Steve asked him.

Bucky didn’t get why he’d want that - other than it maybe restricting the enemy’s line-of-sight on them a little - but Steve was already firing to the sides of their pursuers, so Bucky didn’t question it and just started aiming his shots the same way.

“Sam!” Steve shouted behind them, “You like donuts?”

A sinking feeling started to bubble in Bucky’s belly, but the cars behind them were falling into line now. Steve’s plan was already in motion. 

“Love them,” Sam yelled back. “Why?”

“How far’s the hotel?”

“In sight,” Clint said. 

“Straight ahead?”

“Yep!”

“Open the doors.”

“I already know I hate this,” Bucky muttered, but Clint happily reached over and kicked open Sam’s door anyway. The passenger side door was still open from his grenade-throwing before. 

“Bucky, when I tell you, we’re gonna move to the front—”

“Oh, god, I hate you so much—”

“—shut up, and jump out of the car after—”

“—so, so much—”

“—Clint! When we reach the hotel—” 

“Way ahead of you!” Clint actually sounded eager, and when Bucky curled up to turn around in the tiny backseat area he noticed the crazy man reaching down for something by Sam’s feet. 

His heart was pounding, but despite his frustration Bucky’s mind was startlingly clear in the midst of all the chaos. It always was. He was never calmer than when he was in the middle of a mad mess. It was what helped him be so good at his job. As the adrenaline kicked in, his mind went into some sort of semi-detached meditation, where there was nothing but him, the target, and whatever was between them.

“Now!” Clint suddenly shouted.

Steve reached for him, mouth open to yell unneeded instructions as Bucky was already moving, pushing the idiot forward instead. For a surreal moment as Sam made the screeching hairpin turn, all four men were impossibly squashed together in the front seat, half-suspended in the air by the momentum. 

And then Bucky was thrown sideways, painfully knocking shoulders with Steve, and the car was facing their pursuers for only a split-second before Sam floored it.

“_Out!_” Steve roared, shoving Sam through one door.

Clint rolled out of the other side with Bucky right behind him, throwing his metal arm out first and curling his other around his head. The metal sent sparks as it scraped the tarmac, the rest of him following in a dizzying tumble that had him feeling like every joint hit the ground. 

Bucky forced himself upright as soon as possible, gun up, and watched as their tiny blue car barrelled straight into their pursuers. Like ten-pin bowling, the cars all collided in one strike, sending metal and glass shards flying. All six vehicles were tangled in a crumpled heap. Just as Steve had probably planned.

Beside him Clint sighed with relief, shoes bizarrely missing and his legs flopped in front of him while he leaned back on his hands.

“Don’t drop your guard,” Bucky hissed, rising to his feet. Already he could see a few men spilling out of the less destroyed cars to the back of the crash and wobbling their way towards them. 

“Nah, it’s cool,” Clint panted. “See, I used a—”

A wave of heat buffeted them, and Bucky gaped at the literal fireball in the middle of the road. The men who had survived the crash had now been thrown through the air like ragdolls, or set alight, or both. Bucky clenched his teeth, feeling his headache pounding, “Don’t tell me…”

Clint wiggled his feet, big toes poking free of the threadbare socks. “Well, I had to use _ something _ to wedge my shoes down on the pedal.”

Bucky bit back a scream of frustration at the world, and offered Clint a hand up. The man gamely took his hand and bounced to his feet. 

Steve and Sam were up already too, identical grins on their faces as they looked on at the destruction. Bucky was so done with all three of these lunatics. He turned on his heel to the entrance of the New York Continental hotel. 

Under the black awnings, a pair of doormen in red caps and coats stood on the sweeping steps to the hotel, silently watching the mayhem with blank faces that were neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. Bucky had never been to this branch of the Continental since he avoided work in this city so much, but the vibe was familiar and reassuring in the professional apathy staff already.

Bucky needed a drink, a shower, and a bed, so he started for the hotel, ignoring Sam and Clint behind him praising Steve’s utterly reckless idea. His foot had hardly touched the first step when the scream of tyres echoed around the corner, a fleet of black SUVs arriving on the doorstep just as he crossed the threshold.

Just in time too.

A look behind him, and Bucky saw exactly who came pouring out of those cars.

Rumlow.

And he looked _ pissed_.

Couldn’t touch Bucky on hotel grounds, though Hydra did play more fast-and-loose with most rules - see Alexander Pierce and the fucking Marker that started this. Hurrying the others forward, Bucky watched Clint amble up to the front desk and lean on the counter in front of the Concierge. 

The redhead simply stared back, one eyebrow steadily rising as she looked behind them to the group who had just followed them into the lobby. Bucky could picture their furious faces, and forced himself to ignore the shivers running down his spine at having his back exposed to Rumlow, again. Instead he tried to remember if he’d met this woman before. Something about her face was tugging at a memory he couldn’t quite recall.

“Barton,” the Concierge drawled, green eyes flicking over them.

“We’d like a room, please.”

“Just the one room?”

“Uh-huh.”

“For how long?”

“One night,” Clint shot a look at the rest of them, Steve only offering a shrug. “For now.”

The Concierge nodded and tapped on the countertop, and Clint began patting down his front. 

Steve cleared his throat, “I can—”

“No, no, no. I got this,” Clint insisted. He couldn’t have stuck out more, wearing a ratty coat, holey socks and shattered glass in his hair, as he stood in the upscale lobby all decorated with glass and marble.

He found what he was searching for in the cuffs of his cargo pants, pulling out a gold coin and slapping it on the counter with a smile. Bucky resisted burying his face in his hands. People were starting topay attention to them now.

The Concierge wordlessly slipped the coin away and handed over a plain black keycard, “Room 811. Enjoy your stay.”

“We will,” Sam said, pocketing the keycard and smiling at the woman though she didn’t return it.

As one, they all turned from the desk to face the group behind them, and Bucky found himself nearly nose-to-nose with Rumlow. Which was far too close for anyone. Tension rocketed as both groups stared each other down. A twitch had started in the Rumlow’s cheek from how hard he was glaring at Bucky, boiling hatred and fury burning in his eyes, and Rumlow still had a hand gripping one of the guns strapped to the front of his tac-vest.

Bucky felt the reassuring press of Steve at his shoulder, but made no move to any of his own weapons. He was in enough trouble as it was. Bucky wasn’t risking his membership and all of its privileges by acting too hastily, he needed those now more than ever. Besides, he was banking on the Manager stopping anything from happening.

Sure enough, just as a ripple went through Rumlow’s men and they made to press forward, Bucky noticed hotel security closing in on all of them in his periphery. In the lead was a bald black man with an eyepatch, wearing a long open coat and a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. 

This had to be the Manager.

“Gentlemen, I hope everybody recalls the rules of the Continental,” the Manager drawled. “I’m not going to be happy if I have to call up House-keeping this late. Absolutely no business allowed on the premises.”

Rumlow growled, “You know what they’ve done, Fury! You can’t expect me to just—”

“I can and I will. This is my hotel, and as far as I’m aware these gentlemen are simply guests. You don’t have to like it, but you will have to accept it.” The Manager shot a hard look at each of Rumlow’s men, “If any of you break the rules, _ I _ will break _ you_. Clear?”

No one said another word, but he seemed to take the silence as an agreement when Rumlow eventually uncurled the fingers from his gun.

The Manager huffed and turned to the reception, “Romanov, escort Mr Barton and his friends to their room. I’ll have Hill check-in Mr Rumlow’s group separately.”

“Sir,” the Concierge nodded, stepping out from behind the desk. Bucky took her in fully, from the bright red curls to the generous curves filling in her black pantsuit beautifully, down to the points of her steel-toe pumps. He knew her from somewhere, it was on the tip of his tongue… 

“And see about getting Mr Barton some footwear. I don’t want to be seeing anyone’s bare toes in my lobby.”

With a nod and a sweep of her arm, the Concierge gestured to the elevators.

After a last poisonous look from Rumlow, Bucky stepped away, not daring to turn his back this time even with the Manager keeping a literal eye on all of them. It was an awkward almost-side-shuffle, but it kept the threat in sight until the elevator doors closed between them, and then Bucky was only staring at his own reflection in the mirrored surface.

* * *

Steve let out a small sigh of relief when the cabin started moving, but then the elevator juddered to a sudden halt. 

Emergency lights lit up to reveal Clint standing by the bank of buttons, a finger unashamedly on the stop button as he beamed at the Concierge. “Hey, Nat. You remember Sam, right? These are Steve and Bucky. Guys, this is Natasha Romanov.”

“I know who they are. We all got the broadcast,” Natasha said coolly, gaze fixed somewhere above his head. 

Clint nodded, apparently unconcerned with her tone, “Right. So I’m calling in on that favour you owe me.”

“Is that right? Last I counted, I believe it was _ you _ who owed _ me _ a favour.”

“Nope! That was Bali. Remember Barcelona?”

Natasha’s eyes snapped back down to face Clint, “Berlin.”

Clint crossed his arms, “Beijing.”

“Busan.”

“Ooooh, low blow,” Clint hissed. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll do it. I really will.”

“Go ahead.”

Clint raised his chin, “Budapest.”

Natasha remained unmoved. “That’s still in my favour.”

“What?!” Clint squawked. “No way. That was totally mine!”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

Everyone in the elevator was curiously listening in to the quick back-and-forth between the two of them. They seemed very familiar with each other, body language relaxed in spite of their escalating tones.

“Alright, you’ve left me no choice. I didn’t want to have to go here, but…” Clint took a deep breath before saying one word. “_Belarus_.”

Well, that certainly got a reaction.

Natasha froze, every muscle in her body coiling, her nostrils flaring and eyes like ice as she glared at Clint. This time, it was he who was unfazed, already nodding, “That’s right. I said it.”

“How… _ dare you_—”

“Nat,” Clint had an actually serious look on his face, “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t absolutely mean it.”

Natasha looked like she was imagining strangling him, a feeling Bucky could already relate to after knowing the man for only a day, but she restrained herself. 

Pushing Clint out of the way, she took out a red keycard and swiped it in front of the buttons panel. The cabin immediately switched back to normal lights and started moving again. Natasha sighed, stood in front of the door and frowning at Clint’s reflection, “You know I'm Management, right? I’m not Service anymore.”

“I know,” Clint said, voice gentle. “I’m not gonna ask you to kill anyone. I just want to talk.”

She rolled her eyes, “Fine. Shoes first, and then we’ll talk.”

Clint seemed happy enough with that, though he hadn’t seemed bothered walking about in his socks.

Natasha then turned those green eyes on Bucky, a smirk pulling at her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you.”

Bucky scowled, shuffling his feet, “Should I?”

She just smiled knowingly and went on to ignore him with a smug pout.

* * *

Natasha left them at the door of the suite they’d been given, off to find more appropriate footwear for Clint before her return. All four of them might have taken only one room, but the Continental didn’t really do ‘small’.

There was a large bathroom, small kitchenette, a wide screen TV, two king-sized beds and a wall of panoramic windows, looking temptingly soft and inviting. If any of them were bothered about sharing, then the deep sofas looked just as comfortable, but Bucky wasn’t fussed, too tired to care so long as he’d have the chance to stretch out the kinks in his back and rest his aching shoulder. 

The prosthetic was feeling particularly heavy now. 

There had been a twinge in the elbow joint ever since he’d rolled out of the car earlier, he remembered feeling something snap. The fall had probably knocked something loose. He could handle it, Bucky was more than used to the pain, and the arm was still working. But if he had the chance to at least rest the prosthetic he wasn’t wasting it. Just his luck that he’d left his maintenance kit in the saddlebag on his bike. Which was still in D.C. in front of the Bank club. He could probably get a watch repair kit and manage with the tools from that, but until then Bucky was just going to make do. Probably dig out some painkillers later from the first aid kit that was always provided in a Continental hotel room.

Clint had made a quick sweep of the rooms for any immediate threats before returning to the windows, looking outside, probably watching the still-smoldering car wreck they’d left behind on the street. The Cleaners would be by soon enough to clear that away. Sam headed for the mini-fridge, raiding the contents, and while Bucky’s stomach was rumbling agreement at the idea, there was something higher on his priorities right now.

Bucky staggered to the nearest bed and flopped forward, burying his face in the pillows with a long low groan when felt a satisfying _ pop _ in his lower back.

Steve slumped on the other side of the bed and sighed with relief too.

That car had been _ too fucking small_.

“She seemed to know you,” Steve said. Bucky grunted. “Still don’t remember?”

“No.”

“It’ll come to you.”

Bucky hummed, turning his head on the pillow. “…What if this doesn’t work out, Steve?”

Steve’s brow pulled low as he frowned up at the ceiling. “Then I guess… we’re no worse off. We’d be dead if we did nothing. And at least we’d have tried something.”

“But you really believe in this takeover?” Bucky asked quietly. 

“What High Table have become isn’t right, isn’t fair, to all of us below them,” Steve said, voice firm. “They’re nothing but a bunch of powerful, entitled _ bullies _ now. And there’s only one way to deal with bullies.”

“Ignore them?”

“Zero tolerance. They’ve been corrupted with people like Pierce among them. Who knows how bad some of the others could be, how many others may have ended up like us, or worse,” Steve tilted his head to face Bucky. “We have the means. It’s up to us to take them down. One way or another.”

Bucky stared at his friend, unwilling to admit he got caught up with his mini-speech like always. Steve had a way about speaking sometimes that just swept people up in whatever he was spouting, and it was frustrating as hell because he always made good points that made it hard to argue against. 

He was saved from what would have been yet another futile attempt at getting Steve to back down when the suite door swung open. Everyone jumped to their feet, still painfully on guard, especially with Rumlow in the same building, but they needn’t have worried.

Natasha strode inside, kicking the door shut behind her and tossing a pair of loafers at Clint's head. If anything, he looked even stranger now with shoes back on his feet. 

“Right,” she said, dropping onto the plush sofa and crossing her arms. “You wanted to talk? Then, talk.”

Bucky fell back on the bed, not wanting to be the one to explain everything all over again. He was all talked out. He’d never had to speak so much on a job before. Luckily, Steve was more than willing to talk, with help from the other two. Bucky just let their voices wash over him, waiting until he heard Natasha’s response.

“…Huh.”

Pushing his head up, Bucky saw Natasha holding the flashdrive, their only evidence to Pierce’s betrayal. She was turning the device over in her hands, but made no move to view the video. It told Bucky more about her trust in Clint than anything else yet. 

“Interesting,” Natasha admitted. “It is easier than just killing everyone, since it would be almost impossible simply finding them all. And that wouldn’t have solved anything for us anyway.”

“Us?” Clint grinned.

Sitting up, Bucky watched her return the flashdrive back to Steve before she settled back on the sofa. “Picking the right person to target is the most important thing for you to figure out.” 

“You know of anyone that fits the bill?” Sam asked.

“I might, but…” Her lips pursed as she thought. “The problem with choosing someone already on High Table’s council is that there’s a reason they got there. They’re already powerful, well-connected, heavily guarded, usually quite clever and more than a little ruthless. Most of all, they’re proud. Getting close to one of them would probably take more time than we have, much less getting them in our pockets.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped, “Then it’s hopeless.”

“Not so hopeless as you probably think.”

Bucky frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Give your current _ not _ excommunicado status another look,” Natasha pointed out. “You ought to be dead for your crime against the Table, or at the very least your memberships revoked. Yet, here you are. Safe still on Continental grounds. That tells us something very important.”

It took a moment longer for Bucky to understand what Natasha had in an instant. 

The contract on them gave the impression that High Table wanted them dead, but Natasha was right. He and Steve weren’t declared excommunicado, something that could be declared by each Continental Manager, but could only be ratified and enforced by the Table. They still had access to all the services given to members. They had been guaranteed some safety, in a way.

It meant that the council was not in full agreement over their punishment, demanding death and sanctuary at the same time. Which _ really _ meant that High Table was less stable than their unified front that was projected to the rest of the underworld. 

Someone on the Table seemed to want Bucky and Steve alive.

_What the hell was going on?_

“With Pierce dead there are eleven on the council still alive, but we have no way of knowing which among them made that decision,” Natasha said. “And again, we don’t have the time to go through all of them figuring out who’s on what side. Every minute and you have another assassin tempted by the money they could make off of you two.”

“Then what do you think we should do?” Clint asked.

“Well… There _ is _ the thirteenth seat.”

Clint blinked, and all four of them were equally lost. “…The what?”

“The council had thirteen seats so they could get to a majority ruling on any decision, and make sure a war in our world wasn’t started over something as stupid as a deadlocked decision.”

“I’ve never heard of this. Dugan never mentioned them to me when I took over,” Sam said. 

“There’s a good reason for that,” Natasha admitted. “After all, that seat has lain empty for decades.”

“Why?” Steve frowned. “Who holds the seat?”

“The ‘Ndrangheta,” Natasha said plainly. 

“Wait, wait, wait, I know this!” Clint said, flapping his arms with excitement. “You’re talking ‘bout the Dead Man’s Seat!” 

Natasha shifted in her seat, looking less than confident for the first time. “That’s… one name for it.”

“I thought that was just a story.”

Bucky wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. Not the most auspicious name to hear right now either. He dropped back flat on the bed, trying to recall if he might have heard that moniker before, listening in as Steve asked _ why _ it was called the Dead Man’s Seat.

“It’s called the Dead Man’s Seat because it still belongs to a dead man. The Carbonells, the reigning family of the ‘Ndrangheta, were assassinated nearly thirty years ago,” Natasha said. “But the ‘Ndrangheta are too loyal to put someone new in their place. No one else has managed to steal the seat from them though, even if they’ve abstained from all rulings since the hit, so they’re still technically on the council. They just insist they’re waiting for their Boss to return.”

Sam sighed, “And you really think this is our best bet for an in at High Table?”

“I think it’s our only way short of an all our war, which we have neither the resources nor the backing to do.”

“The problem with that is the very reason why the seat is still empty though,” Steve pointed out. “The ‘Ndrangheta won’t accept just anyone we put forward - they want their Boss.”

“So we find him.”

Find a dead man. It wasn’t the first time Bucky had to do something like that. Usually it was someone demanding proof-of-death in the form of bones or the like before having them marked down as _ dead _ not _ missing_. Depending on where the hit had taken place and who had done it, it could be as easy as simply digging up a grave and presenting their findings to the nearest ‘ndrina to pass along to whoever was currently helming the Italian crime family. Equally, it could be as impossible as reforming a body from acid if the hitman had been thorough, which would mean they’d have nothing.

Handing over any remains still wouldn’t be any guarantee that the ‘Ndrangheta would help them. But it might get them to listen, maybe actually do something on the council at long last and at least close that damn $10 million contract on their heads. By this point, Bucky was getting the feeling he would probably never leave service, but it would be nice to at least not get actively hunted for the rest of his life.

Steve seemed to agree that this might be their best chance, huffing with frustration, “Do you know where we could find him?” 

“No,” Natasha said. “But Fury might.”

* * *

Bucky wouldn’t realise until later that he was never going to get that nap on the soft bed he’d wanted. 

They only hung around in the suite long enough to clean up before Natasha returned with suits that fit them all perfectly. The measurements were creepily accurate, and Bucky knew he’d never visited the Tailor at this branch. 

She escorted them from the rooms deep into the cool underbelly of the Continental, through the basement and past the laundry, all the way to the plain metal door for the underground bar. Sam dug out a coin this time, but Natasha waved it aside, simply swiping that red keycard of hers again to have the door swing open. 

Smokey jazz music and eerie green lighting immediately blanketed them, as Natasha led the way through the groups of people still talking and drinking into the witching hour. She headed to the back, to a red leather booth in the corner in which the Manager of the hotel was sat reading some papers and nursing a beer.

“Sir,” Natasha greeted him. 

Fury didn’t even look at them, “No.”

Natasha wasn’t deterred, and Bucky wasn’t surprised to see her pressing on. “_Sir_.”

“Fine!” Setting down his papers, Fury took a sip of his beer and waved at her. “Go on.”

She took the seat across from him, folding her hands neatly on the table, “The Dead Man’s seat.”

Fury hummed, “Ah, that old story.”

“You’re familiar with it then.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe more familiar than others.”

Fury narrowed his eye at Natasha, and she straightened her shoulders when his eye swept over to their group still hovering by his table. “What’s this about, Romanov?”

“The council is compromised,” Natasha said, voice low even with the noise of the bar surrounding them. Words like that were almost treasonous though, no matter the location. 

“Hmm,” Fury took another drink of his beer. “There is a reason there were supposed to be thirteen.”

“Just how bad is it, really?” Bucky asked, curious now.

High Table was the ultimate authority in the underworld, and were rightly feared for a reason. And yet, from what Sam and Clint had implied back in the soup kitchen, problems with them had come up more and more recently. 

Bruce was only one example. By all rights, Bruce should either be dead because they agreed with Ross, or Ross’s contract on him terminated because the council agreed with Bruce. Instead they’d been left in a sort of hushed limbo state, where Bruce was in hiding indefinitely and no one had questioned why Ross was hunting him down. The council had failed to deliver a conclusive judgement on the situation.

Was it all down to the twelve remaining seats being divided on every issue? Had they been left no choice but to half-ass dispensing their judgement with the ‘Ndrangheta refusing to vote? It seemed to keep happening, if Bucky’s current hunted-but-still-alive status was anything to go on.

How important could that deciding vote be in their world?

_And just how powerful could the individual who claimed that seat be?_

Fury set his empty beer bottle on the table, “It’s an even split.”

It wasn’t good, but it was better than Bucky had feared. If there had been more dissention with the council as the twelve descended into smaller groups, it might have meant that they’d accidentally stepped into the eve of an all out war between the crime families. Something that would affect everyone in their world. 

Instead there were a more manageable two sides standing at an impasse. 

This coup of theirs just kept getting more and more complicated.

“Whoever took the Carbonells out did our world no favours,” Fury said. “They never came forward, never did anything about the power vacuum they left behind, they just had them killed and left the rest of us to deal with the chaos. They’ll find no friends, on either side.”

Steve stepped forward, “Is there any way to get the ‘Ndrangheta to properly take their seat?” 

Turning his gaze from him, Fury studied Steve instead. Bucky knew what he’d find - pure determination and stubbornness. Bucky could easily tell by the look on Steve’s face that for whatever reason he was now _ invested_. 

Their issue about Pierce breaking his Marker oath, and the killing of Pierce and Sitwell, was almost small change compared to all these revelations about the state of High Table. Plus, the punk could never keep his nose out of a bad situation if he thought he could do something about it.

“I suppose…” Fury paused, “The only way would be to bring justice to a dead man.”

“Got any ideas where to start?” Steve eagerly asked.

“The problem is that you aren’t the first people to go looking for answers,” Fury said. “You’re already running behind. Got a lot of catching up to do.”

A waiter suddenly cut in, swapping a full bottle of beer for Fury’s empty one on the table. 

Fury settled back in the booth, a small smirk on his lips as he took a sip of his drink, “Have a drink, gentlemen. Relax. Don’t forget, no business can be conducted on Continental premises.”

Steve bit back whatever stupid thing he’d been about to say, and Bucky was almost proud that he'd learned when to keep his trap shut sometimes. Natasha gave a small shake of her head, and Clint started nudging Sam away from the table, and then more forcefully moving Steve back too. It looked like they’d get nothing more out of the Manager, but Bucky wondered… 

Natasha seemed to have picked up on something too since she steered them toward the bar counter instead of the exit. Her eyes were definitely fixed on someone specific, but Bucky couldn’t help noticing someone else. 

Rumlow was here too, commandeering a table with his men, drinks untouched and beady eyes watching their group intently. Bucky told himself to ignore him. Rumlow couldn’t do anything to them, not here in front of the whole room of fellow members, and especially not in front of the hotel Manager. Bucky was hoping that not even Hydra were powerful enough to cover up breaking Continental rules somewhere this public.

Forcing his eyes away, Bucky turned back to Natasha, “Who are we going to?”

“An old friend,” Natasha said, eyes still on her target at the bar. “Clint knows him too.”

Steve leaned in, “Why?”

“Fury did say we had some catching up to do.”

It seemed to make sense. Bucky tracked Natasha’s eyes to a middle-aged man dressed in a simple suit, the tie still tight at the collar though he seemed relaxed. His hairline was receding and he was drinking a bright blue cocktail with an umbrella, but those weren’t what caught Bucky’s attention.

Sitting on the bar counter by the man’s elbow was a large black medallion with golden lettering.

“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me.”

That was an Adjudicator.


End file.
